by Bob Cook
It was a reasonable guess, since Mr Blake no longer used his phone, and Sharon was the only one to make outgoing calls from his home. But if Sharon was Mr Blake’s nurse, she took her duties very lightly. She spent a great deal of time on Mr Blake’s phone, making personal calls. Indeed, her calls were so personal that Wayne and Kevin had no hesitation in describing her as a “goer”.
“Never heard nothing like it,” Wayne said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Kevin said thoughtfully. “There was that bird in the anti-apartheid movement who was shagging half the London School of Economics. And what about that one in Dunstable CND? She was a right goer.”
“Fair enough,” Wayne conceded. “But have you seen all these numbers she’s been phoning? Eighteen of them, for Christ’s sake. And they’re all married men. Where does she get the time?”
“Where does she get the energy?”
“What a goer,” Wayne said, shaking his head. “Look out, she’s at it again.”
The tape recorder started once more, and the two men hurriedly put on their headphones.
“Hello?” Sharon said.
“That you Sharon?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s me, Stan. You free tonight?”
“No. How about Wednesday?”
“Yeah, all right. It’s arrived.”
“What has?”
“The rubber gear.”
“Yeah?”
“Can’t wait to try it. Have you got the jelly?”
“Yeah. Should be fun.”
“Wednesday then.”
“See you.”
“Bye.”
“My God,” Kevin said, as he peeled off his earphones. “Did you hear that?”
“Amazing,” Wayne said. “What a goer.”
“At Blake’s house! He’s going to see her there. By Christ, that Blake must be a sick man.”
“Death’s door,” Wayne agreed. “Can you imagine it? Him upstairs dying in his bed, and down below she’s having a rubber party.”
Kevin consulted his notes, and found more cause for astonishment.
“Stan’s new,” he breathed. “We’ve not had him before. So he’s…”
“Number nineteen!” Wayne exclaimed.
For a full minute they sat in awed silence, trying to comprehend the sheer athleticism of Sharon’s social life.
“She must be bow-legged,” Kevin concluded.
“Good thing she’s using jelly,” Wayne said. “Otherwise there wouldn’t be much of her left.”
Kevin nodded slowly.
“What a goer,” he said.
Chapter Twenty
CHESTER PEACOCK TREMBLED with excitement, as he gave Ogden a thick sheaf of notes.
“Clive,” he said, “you’ll just love all this. I promise.”
“You found out something, then?”
“Did I find out something! Clive darling, Magnum Inc. of Denver was a CIA-front company.”
Ogden’s eyebrows lifted inquiringly, and he expelled a vermilion gum-bubble.
“Start at the beginning,” he suggested.
“Well, I first approached this man I know who works in Signals Interception. He’d heard about Kyle—I could tell—but he wasn’t going to give me anything. In fact, he got all hoity-toity with me and said it was none of my damn business. I said, ‘All right, all right. You aren’t putting any boils on my ass. I’ll just try somewhere else.’”
“Good for you,” Ogden grinned.
“And I did. A very nice girl in the Far-Eastern section knew all about Magnum. Apparently it was one of a number of front companies the CIA use to sell arms in secret.”
“To whom?”
“Anyone they like. But I understand that Kyle’s speciality was central and southern America.”
“So the arms he bought from Carter were probably destined for the Nicaraguan Contras?”
“Or Panama, or somewhere like that.”
“And the CIA was bankrolling this operation?”
“So I’m told,” Peacock nodded.
“In that case,” Ogden said, “one of our theories has just gone down the plug-hole.”
“What’s that?”
“Magnum Inc. didn’t close through bankruptcy. However much Kyle lost on the theft of Carter’s shipment, his people could afford it.”
“You’re right,” Peacock said. “And nobody really understands why Kyle stopped trading. Apparently he just walked into the office one day and told all his staff to go home.”
“Any theories?”
“No good ones. There’s some talk that Kyle got religion—but hell, half of the armed forces are born-again Christians now. It never stopped anyone from fighting, did it?”
“Not in my experience,” Ogden smiled.
“Anyway, I got a copy of his file. Thought you’d like it.”
“You bet,” Ogden said appreciatively. “Chester, you’ve done splendidly.”
“De rien,” Peacock shrugged modestly.
“You’ve certainly outgunned me,” Ogden said. “Denver was a total waste of time. I went to Magnum Inc.’s offices, and found they were completely empty. The commissionaire told me Colonel Kyle was a very agreeable fellow who always asked after his wife, and no, he didn’t know what had become of him. There wasn’t even a forwarding address.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Peacock said. “Kyle sounds like a real zero, and I don’t think you’ll find his résumé very useful. He’s really very boring: decorated Vietnam veteran, and all that usual crud.”
“Any personality quirks?”
“None listed. He’s conscientious, efficient, clean-living, blah blah blah. There’s a wife and kids somewhere. There would be, of course.”
Ogden glanced through the file, and nodded in resignation.
“End of lead,” he concluded. “Kyle isn’t going to get us anywhere, from the look of this. But there’s still one small question mark.”
“Yes?”
“Kyle was put in touch with Carter by a British officer called Symes, who has Intelligence connections. Hitherto, I’ve assumed that Kyle knew Symes via the gun trade. But it’s now just possible that they were Intelligence colleagues.”
“True,” Peacock said. “But so what?”
“Our Intelligence people have been tapping the phone of Carter’s business partner, and they seem to be taking a keen interest in his activities. We can’t understand why. But if Carter’s arms shipment was an Intelligence operation that went wrong—”
“An illegal operation,” Peacock said.
“There would have been quite a few red faces when it was learned that a massive outfit like the CIA had been swindled by some grubby Italian sea captain.”
“Definitely. So you think there’s been a cover-up?”
“Seems plausible,” Ogden said. “Though it doesn’t explain Carter’s murder, or that of the private investigator.”
“Maybe they were killed as part of the cover-up,” Peacock suggested.
“I rather doubt it,” Ogden said. “What’s the point? By all accounts, Carter was having no luck with his inquiry, and the investigator was in a similar position. And killing them just served to draw attention to whatever’s being concealed. After all, if it weren’t for those killings, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”
“I guess not,” Peacock conceded. “Oh well, what are you going to do now?”
“Don’t know,” Ogden said. “I was sure I had something else to take care of while I was in the States, but it’s slipped my mind.”
“Must have been trivial,” Peacock said.
“Probably,” Ogden agreed. “Anyway, that’s my work here finished. Time to go home, and see if one of my chums has had better luck.”
“I wish you well. It sounds much more exciting than those stories you’ve made up for your memoirs.”
“Perhaps,” Ogden grinned. “But they’re fun as well. Oh, and speaking of fun, I must tell you about Disneyland…”
Chapter Twenty-one
“JEREMY? IT’S JOHN DAY, HERE.”
“Hello,” Beauchamp said. “Any success?”
“Maybe,” Day said. “I’ve found out about a Pieter Lemiers, but I’m not sure if he’s your man.”
“Why is that?”
“I phoned a liaison officer in the Netherlands police, and he told me I was wasting my time. There were several Lemiers with criminal records, but only one was called Pieter, and he’s doing five years for robbery.”
“Oh dear.”
“He said he’d need more information to trace the guy—an address, occupation, something like that. So I thanked him and rang off.”
“Never mind,” Beauchamp said, “it was good of you to—”
“He phoned me back two hours later,” Day continued. “Apparently he’d chatted about my call to his mates, and one of them remembered the name from somewhere else.”
“Really?”
“He checked the files, and lo and behold: a Pieter Lemiers was murdered two months ago in Rotterdam.”
“Good heavens!”
“Shot dead in his office, apparently. The case is still under investigation, but the word is that there are no clues, no suspects, and no apparent motive for the killing.”
Beauchamp picked up a note-pad and began scribbling upon it.
“What was Lemiers’ occupation?”
“He ran a chemical supply company called Leipochem. He travelled around a lot, so he could have been in Paris on the dates you gave me. Do you think he’s your man?”
“To be quite honest, I’ve no idea. I wasn’t expecting him to be a chemical supplier—but then, I wasn’t expecting him to be anything, I suppose.”
“There’s a widow, if you’re interested.”
“I am,” Beauchamp said. “Do you have her address?”
“Sure,” Day said. “She lives in Rijswijk. That’s a suburb of the Hague, apparently.”
Beauchamp wrote down both Mrs Lemiers’ address and that of Lemiers’ company.
“That’s all I could get,” Day concluded. “Hope it’s what you want.”
“I hope so too,” Beauchamp said. “I’m deeply grateful—”
“No sweat,” Day laughed. “But I tell you what: if you come across any nice bits of Regency furniture, give me first shout.”
“I’ll do that,” Beauchamp promised. “Thanks again.”
“Cheers.”
Beauchamp put the phone down, and rushed out to his car. An hour later, he was at the Vicar’s home, recounting the latest news.
“What do you think?” he said finally.
“I really don’t know,” said the Vicar, scratching his head. “He could be our Lemiers, I suppose. But why would a chemical supplier be selling arms? The two activities are hardly related.”
“They aren’t related at all,” Sybil said. “He’s the wrong man.”
“But he was abroad at the time in question,” Beauchamp countered. “It could have been Paris.”
“It could also have been Kuala Lumpur,” Sybil said. “You don’t know.”
“I could try to find out. His wife should know, or his colleagues.”
“That’s right,” Sybil said bitterly, “pester some poor widow at the time of her grief. Just what I’d expect—”
“Oh, come on, Sybil,” the Vicar said, “we can be tactful, you know.”
“I see precious little evidence of that around here,” Sybil sniffed.
“Have you any other leads, Jeremy?” the Vicar asked.
“None, I’m afraid. That’s why I feel we ought to pursue this one. I admit there’s only a slim chance that this is our man—”
“No chance at all,” Sybil snorted.
“—but we can’t dismiss it.”
The Vicar nodded slowly, and said, “What do you suppose Clive would think, if he were here?”
“You know perfectly well, Godfrey,” Sybil said. “Clive Ogden can be relied upon to take any course of action that’s rash, pointless, thoughtless, childish, and dangerous.”
“He’d be over to Holland like a shot,” the Vicar agreed.
“In that case, I’d better go,” Beauchamp said. “Besides, I could do with a quick holiday.”
“Aha,” Sybil said accusingly. “Now we’re getting to the truth of the matter. You just want a pleasure trip, and any pretext will do.”
“Now, wait a minute, Sybil—”
“No, Jeremy Beauchamp, you wait a minute. Just because Clive is having a nice time abroad, you all want an excuse to do the same. Let’s face it, that’s why Fergus has rushed off to Italy. Well, if you want a holiday, why don’t you go to an ordinary resort like everyone else? There’s no need to take advantage of some poor widow’s grief. If I were her, I would send you packing. But I expect she’s a kind-hearted, trusting soul who’ll take you at your face value. You may not have any respect for people in mourning, but I do. I bet you haven’t given the slightest thought to the effect you might have on somebody like that. Why, she might have a nervous breakdown! And whose fault would that be? Yours, and that other irresponsible fool Clive Ogden’s. When are you going to come to your senses and stop pretending to be the Famous Five? It’s really quite pathetic.”
The Vicar stroked his chin thoughtfully and said, “Mmm. I wonder how the Laird is faring in Italy?”
Chapter Twenty-two
“MR BOOKANA?” said the harbourmaster. “You phone yesterday?”
“That was me,” said the Laird. “Is the SS Flavio still here?”
“Sure. You go twenty metres that way, turn left, then another fifty metres. Is just there, okay?”
“Thank you.”
The Laird left the harbourmaster’s office, and followed his directions. The seafront of Livorno was much like any other: weatherbeaten, cluttered with cranes and cables, and smelling of oil and salt. But the town itself was surprisingly pleasant. Livorno was not a tourist paradise, of course, but it was lively and interesting, with enough reminders of its eight-hundred-year history to justify a brief sightseeing tour after the Laird had accomplished his mission.
He stopped in front of a grubby old freighter, lit his pipe, and smiled in satisfaction: through the rust and grime on the ship’s stern, he could make out the words “FLAVIO Panama”. He looked up at a boy on the deck, and called out: “Captain Salvucci? Ricardo Salvucci?”
The boy made a gesture of understanding, and disappeared inside. Moments later, a man appeared on the top deck and gazed down inquiringly at the Laird.
“Si?” he called out.
“Captain Salvucci? I’d like a word, please. It’s about a man called Carter.”
The man paused, as if trying to decide upon something. Then he shrugged and came down to the quay. The Laird had expected someone older, with a dark complexion, and perhaps a three-day growth of oily black stubble. But the Flavio’s captain was not much over thirty, with pale green eyes and hair bleached almost white by the sun. And although the Laird assumed he would be greeted with hostility and evasiveness, Captain Salvucci’s expression suggested nothing more than affable bemusement.
“Who are you?” he inquired.
“My name’s Buchanan. I’m a friend of Mr Carter’s business partner. He’s been trying to find you for some time.”
“Why?”
“For starters, he’d like to know what you did with a consignment of goods destined for England.”
The captain’s eyes widened.
“What goods? I never take nothing to England.”
“I know you didn’t,” the Laird said. “That’s the whole point. You should have taken a consignment of guns to Southampton, shouldn’t you?”
“Guns? Fucili?”
“Among other things, yes.”
The captain grinned and shook his head.
“You make mistake. I never ship guns anywhere.”
“You were supposed to.”
“No,” the captain said emphatically. “Is no’ true. I no’ take guns.”
“You tell the police what you want. The Flavio no’ take guns.”
“But you did meet Mr Carter, didn’t you?”
“Oh, sure.”
“And he did put a consignment on your ship.”
“He watch while we load,” the captain said. “But it was no’ guns. Other thing.”
“What other things?”
The captain waved his hand incredulously, as if the Laird was making an absurd request.
“How do I remember? I done four, five trips since. Maybe fertiliser or something. I forget.”
“Fertiliser?” the Laird repeated.
“Si. Something like that. You want to know? Follow me.”
Captain Salvucci led the Laird onto his ship, and showed him into his cabin. After a few minutes’ rifling through a drawer, he unearthed some papers.
“Old cargo manifest and polizza di carico are in my office in Napoli,” he explained, “but these are Custom and other paper. Look.”
The Laird glanced through the cargo documents, and saw nothing except a long list of agricultural commodities—mostly chemical goods, marked down as fertilisers and insecticides, and destined for Greece, Cyprus and Turkey. One of the consignments, which went to the Turkish port of Mersin, was from a “Sig. Carter, Parigi”.
“See?” the captain said. “No guns.”
“So it says,” the Laird nodded. “But as I understood it, the guns were disguised as chemicals and hidden in drums.”
The captain seemed to find this idea highly entertaining. He laughed out loud, and took back the papers.
“Big joke, eh? Disguise as chemical? Listen, Signor Bookana, before we leave Napoli, the port police inspect this shipment.”
“They did?” the Laird blinked.
“Sure. Is routine, no?”
“And—and they looked at the fertilisers and stuff?”
“Everything.”
The Laird was deeply confused. Nothing added up, and if the captain was lying, he was a master of the art.
“Did Mr Carter see these papers?” he asked.